


Locked Out of Heaven

by Lanskys



Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 13:14:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3530726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lanskys/pseuds/Lanskys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard can't sleep, so instead, he fantasizes about Kate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Locked Out of Heaven

For the third night in a row, Richard Gecko cannot sleep. Next to him, Santanico sleeps in eerie silence; no breath, no heartbeat, no signs of life. He brushes his fingers over her cheek and through her hair and she shifts slightly, mumbles incoherently. Richie sits up and swings his legs off of the bed, raking his hands through his sleep-mussed hair and getting to his feet.

Reflexively, he feels around for his glasses on the bedside table before he remembers he doesn't have them anymore. _A part of you has to die, Richie._

He rubs his eyes and looks back at Santanico. They had sex the first night they'd reached Texas. And it was everything he hoped it would be, she's everything he hoped she would be. The image of her on top of him is burned into his retinas: her body like animate marble, sculpted, created, every inch of her perfectly placed and proportioned, glowing with the sheen of sweat and moonlight. She seemed to be making no effort at all.

And when his cock found that spot, just there, just right, Santanico hissed and bit down on his collarbone. It _hurt_ , an unpleasant grinding of fang on bone, and he exhaled as if he'd been punched in the gut to stop from crying out. Her teeth left a glistening crescent mark in his flesh that hasn't quite faded.

Distantly, he wonders if he left a similar mark on Seth's neck.

 _Jesus, Richie_ , he thinks, _you're an immortal being with the most beautiful woman you've ever seen at your fingertips, you finally have a home, and you can't get your goddamn brother off your mind?_

Did Seth take Kate with him? Richie had smelled their trails entwining, so he must have. Good. They can protect each other, they can become each other's homes. It's better this way, he thinks and pretends that the tug he feels in his gut isn't jealousy.

Richie sighs heavily and reclines back against the couch in the living room, knocking aside a few decorative pillows to stretch out and settle his head against the armrest. The silent tranquility of the room feels foreign to him now—the lack of voices in his head making him feel crazier than he ever did with them.

Part of him wonders why he ever wanted this at all, why he ever thought this felt like home. He could be with Seth and Kate right now, holed up in some cheap motel in the desert, drinking tequila and planning the next heist, watching Kate splash around in her bikini. He remembers what she looked like emerging from that pool: small breasts, tight, adolescent curves, the slenderness of her hips, the swell of her ass. He remembers how gently she had kissed him in the back room of the Titty Twister, and how, not gently at all, he had kissed her back.

 _Am I really_ _sit_ _ting in the dark, lusting after a seventeen year old?_ he thinks, throwing his forearm up over the upper half of his face to obscure his eyes. _How the mighty have fallen._

Thinking about Kate feels like a punch to the gut. It feels like falling into the shadows all over again, except this time it isn't darkness: it's a pure, white light that engulfs him.

And before he knows it, he’s got one hand down his pajama pants, gripping the base of his cock, freeing himself of the fabric, and he's kind of embarrassed at how hard he is, at the way his cock flips up against his stomach.

He smooths his thumb over the tip and shamelessly bucks into the touch.

Katie would be so fucking tight. She'd make small breathy moans, her pale, naked body arching away from the bed to press against him. _Fuck_ _._

He licks the hot palm of his hand and wraps it around his cock.

For a moment, Richie is weak with want, moving his hand clumsily along his length. Then he steadies himself, tightening his grasp and bringing his hand down, then back up again, quick and smooth.

He can picture, with precise clarity, how she'd blush and look away when he finds her hot, wet, and wanting against his fingers. Kate sprawled out on the bed before him, flushed and sweaty and happy with her dark hair fanned out over the pillow. He'd dip his head down, press his tongue to her clit and feel her hips buck at the wet heat of the motion. He would make a point of looking up at her, his face bracketed by her thighs—up past the plane of quivering abdomen, heaving breasts, the long pallid column of her neck to where she's open-mouthed and pink in the face.

Richie smirks crookedly, and squeezes his cock at the thought: Katie-Cakes begging for release in a tumble of words that's half like his name, and half whimpered nonsense.

He would pull away just before she comes.

He'd straighten up, on his knees, and press his cock to the flushed slickness between her legs, the head of his erection meeting the hard nub of her clit, the tiny bit of friction almost making him lose his mind.

 _God,_ Richie can just see her canting her hips upward for him to guide his cock into that tight heat; he bites down on his lip to strangle a groan.

Maybe she'd be on top, the warm weight of her pressing down on him, riding him, lifting herself up and down. Their bodies meeting, joining, his cock disappearing, thick, inside of her. In his mind, he rolls her over onto her back and she bursts out a sudden, loud, “ _Jesus_ ” her fingers grappling at his back, clutching him closer. He holds her hips down, coaxing the orgasm from her with every stroke of his hips, her thighs clamping around his waist.

He can already feel the building approach of his own orgasm in the base of his spine, drawing it up through his body with the tight, hot twist of his hand. His hips pump up once more as he lets out a soft groan, his breath seizing in anticipation.

He almost hears Kate panting his name, breathless and frantic, “Richie, _Richie,_ ” quaking beneath him, eyes rolling back; it sends him over the edge.

He makes a fist with the hand thrown over his face—his blunt fingernails dig into his palm—and gasps sharply, his hips snapping up as he spills over his fingers.

He comes down breathless and lightheaded and a little bit embarrassed at how quick that was. He feels the heat and wetness of his cum seeping into the fabric under him. Into the decorative pillows Santanico bought. And he knows he's so fucking dead for ruining them.

In the back of his mind, somewhere, wherever in his head things still make sense, he’s sort of amazed at his sudden carelessness. And—despite the loneliness in his bones, despite the fact that he just got off imagining fucking the preacher's daughter—he finds himself laughing.

What more can Santanico do to him? He's already dead.


End file.
